By Nora May French

You found my soul an untried instrument.
            I closed it fast and bade you take the key,
Serene in my unquestioning content
  That you alone could wake the harmony.

I gave the key, indifferent though it cost
  Familiar lightness of unskillful touch,
The music to the master. If I lost,
  He lets the little go who profits much.

Ah, then the keen, reluctant knowledge grew
  That thought the chords were helpless at your will
You had nor wit nor power to sound them true:
  Discordant they, or else forever still